


Post Movie 2 Series

by Charlie_Parker



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, This author needs to data dump her fics from tumblr on to AO3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlie_Parker/pseuds/Charlie_Parker
Summary: What if John Wick isn't the only excommunicated assassin out there? In fact, what if there's a whole army of them?





	1. The First Times You Met John Wick

You had met John Wick four times in your life. It wasn’t because you weren’t memorable and he kept forgetting you had ever met. You’d like to consider that knowing John and knowing about him always felt like meeting a new part of him. The first time came when you first heard of him. No one gets in the business without first hearing about John Wick. It would be like a baseball player not knowing who Jackie Robinson was. The first time you had heard his name was during an entry level gig. Some Russian diplomat hired you to watch his young niece as she vacationed in New York. Pretty basic. Nothing to get worried about. You had even thought with the first two days on the job under your belt that this whole assassin thing would end up being pretty easy. That is until that Russian diplomat had mentioned the Baba Yaga. What were you supposed to do? Not ask what that meant? You can still remember the ice cold water of reality hit you when Mr. Ranskahov went in disturbing detail on the last job a colleague of his had sent Wick on.   
“Is something wrong?” He had asked  
“No. It just seems a bit...excessive. He blew up an entire floor of a hotel after he already completed the mission of getting the keys of a storage unit back?”  
“We’re not supposed to question his methods.”  
“Not even a little bit?”

The second time you had met John Wick was when you first saw him. For most people, the slick jet black hair and contradictory warm brown eyes was a death omen. For you, it was the moment your life had been saved. You still don’t know why he had chosen to save you. You had been responding to the same open contract and in the flurry that was trying to get in alive, you had been shot between the ribs. Between the steps of his deadly dance, the Baba Yaga had shoved you to the side and knocked you out against a solid wall. Supposedly, he had gone forward to kill the target and had come back to tow you to a hospital, carrying your dead weight over his broken shoulder. You only knew so much from the nurse who described the man who dropped you off at the Continental and paid your room charge, and the accounts of the target being dead. 

Years would pass before you would meet John Wick again. It would take a few months after John’s life was destroyed before he found himself running in the provincial neighborhood you had set up your league of undercover excommunicado killers, called The Rogue Communicados. It would take a personal tragedy on both of your ends for you to meet him, passed out in an alley with the gentle tempered pit bull asleep beside him. You had poked at him a few times. He looked to be recovering from days old wounds and he wouldn’t stir.   
“Time to return a favor, I guess.” You had sighed and picked him up– or rather, tried to. It ended up more of a drag while supporting him by the shoulders. John had woken up confused about why he was in a cozy little bedroom and why you were watching him carefully.  
“I’m not armed.” You warned him. It was never sure if he would act out.  
“Where am I?” His head was ringing and he felt his stomach was about to growl. How long had he been running? How long had he been excommunicated?  
“Upstate New York.”  
“Why?”  
“I found you. Figured I could repay a debt. You’re up at a good time too, dinner’s almost ready.”

The last time you met John Wick, it was in your bedroom. He had followed you after a meeting with your tight knit group of ex-assassins. The conversations had gone on about the usual: How do we minimize our visibility when we tap into the non-excommunicated network? How many did we find this month trying to collect on old contracts from when any of us were first excommunicated? It wasn’t too stimulating a conversation. Things had stabilized since your personal– and the group’s– tragedy.  
Wick made sure to close the door behind the two of you before he decided to let out some of his concerns, “I still don’t understand why I’m here.”  
“You’re like us, John.” You sighed, keeping your back to him to look out of the window.  
“Everyone serves a purpose down there. You’ve got sentries and scouts. Armies don’t have spaces for people who don’t contribute.”  
“We had a security guy. He worked mostly with the tech side of things. Cloaking our signals and things like that.”  
“I’m not really a computers guy.”  
“I know. But since...he died, we’ve had more people able to find out where we are. We need to double down on on-site security until we have the cyber security thing locked down.”  
“He was important to you.”  
You nodded “My husband.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“It’s fine.” He gave you a weird look as you had turned your head to look over your shoulder. “I mean, it’s not. I just say that to everybody because I’m supposed to be the fearless leader, even to myself. Have you ever felt that you couldn’t let yourself cry about something because it would distract you from what you need to do?”  
He nodded “You end up half dead outside of a dog pound.”  
“I’m assuming that’s a metaphor, but yeah.”  
“It’s not.” John let himself sit on your bed and look up at you. He really saw you. He analyzed everyone else, but you two had come a long way from seeing each other as possible threats.  
“There wasn’t anything I could do.” You sighed “We were just out walking at night and the only reason I’m still here is because the driver wasn’t drunk enough to hit two people.” You had moved to sit down at your desk chair, half a foot away from where John sat. “I felt helpless. I felt angry. I’m an assassin, John. Or used to be. In any case, I’m one that’s lived up to this point. I don’t worry if someone wants to attack me because I know I can beat them. There was nothing I could do, nothing for me to punch.”  
“The driver…”  
“Drove half a mile more before colliding with a tree.”  
“I know what that feels like.”  
“Yeah?”  
John nodded “My wife died of a hidden genetic disease.”  
“Can’t punch a microbe.”  
He scoffed and nodded “Or faulty genetic code. I think that’s why I went all out on that kid. Because he was the next best reason as to why my life sucked.”  
“And then you ended up half dead outside of a dog pound.”  
“And then I ended up half dead outside of the dog pound.” He had nodded.


	2. Maybe This Is Christmas Now

The first words you heard as you came into the apartment was the deep, unfaltering voice of your long term guest. “You’ve been out all night. I don’t know where you’ve been.”   
For an ex-assassin, your overreaction of shocked fear was really humiliating. The grocery bags you had carried in were almost all spilled out on the floor. “John! What the fuck!”  
“Where were you?”  
“Groceries, shopping for tomorrow. There’s a 24/7 Food Mart not far from here.”  
“You’ve been gone hours.”  
“Yeah, I know.”  
“It’s 2 AM.”  
“Oh.”  
John turned to look at you. He had been sitting on the couch, unable to do much more than sit and wait, hoping you might return safely. In the life of excommunicated assassins, a walk outside was a risk John had learned he rather never take. “Oh?”  
“I mean,” Your shoulders finally let go, carrying the groceries to the kitchen and sitting down beside John “I got a bit carried away. First I went to walk Dat Boi.”  
“I really hate that name, please don’t call my dog Dat Boi.”   
“Look, I told you, you name him or I make up a name so bad you’ll have to find a better one.”  
John just sighed and leaned back, his arm outstretched to the back of the sofa. You felt the skin of his arm against the back of your neck. It felt familiarly foreign.  
“Then I went out to the local shopping center.” It was difficult finding these in very rural upstate New York. A small snort of a laugh escaped you “I saw these people dressed up like historical figures doing crazy shit.”   
John cocked a brow and looked at you with a sideways tilted head “Like what?”  
“Like Genghis Khan destroying the Sports Center. It was hilarious. I got a video. Anyway, I got everyone a gift. Then I went to the Party City and got some holiday stuff. Thought I could get some of our peeps to decorate.” Of course, by peeps you meant the tightly knit group of other hidden excommunicated agents that lived all down the same street as you.  
“You think they’ll do it.”  
“I’m their leader, of course they will. They’re gonna hang up mistletoe and set up menorahs and they’re gonna like it.”  
John chuckled “Alright. What did you do after?” It wasn’t like any sort of interrogation. You didn’t owe him any explanations. It just felt nice to reveal to someone the contents of your day. John seemed to understand that.  
Drawing your knees to your chest and leaning against him to lay down on the couch, you spoke through your yawn “Then I went and got a quick dinner. My phone died.”  
That made sense. John had been trying to call you but only landed on your voicemail box. “Then I went to the Food Mart. Got a bunch of good stuff. I wasn’t sure what you like or what you celebrate so I just bought everything I could think of. Since everyone is coming over tomorrow- or I guess I should say tonight- I think there’ll be enough for everybody to like something.”  
John hummed and leaned his head down to kiss the top of your head “What was that for?” You murmured, looking back up at him.  
“Just ‘cause.”  
“Okay.” Another yawn. This time it infected John too. “Bed time?”  
“Yeah.” He nodded.

Later in the afternoon, John was getting ready for the festivities. Fixing his white collared button-down and smoothing it down his abdomen, he remembered the last time he had a real Christmas (“It’s a non-denominational celebration, John.” You had reminded him earlier). Helen never made too big a deal out of the holidays but she always had an appreciation for the small moments of warmth that came from them. John’s best memories came from the warm apple cider she made and the fuzzy sweaters she always had on.   
A knock came from his door. He knew the little pattern and rhythm of the knock. “Be right out.” He called over his shoulder.   
“Can I come in?” You called out, holding your hair up, your dress open from the back. Even though you were in a blossoming relationship and lived in the same house, you both valued some privacy from time to time. Besides, John needed space. What he needed in space, you provided.  
“Yeah, sure.” John cleared his throat, checking he hadn’t forgotten some embarrassing detail like the fly of his pants.  
Walking in, you couldn’t help but smile “I like this look.” John was wearing simple denim jeans and a light white button down. He didn’t resemble the mythical killer of the Underground (even though no one would dispute that that too was a good look).  
“Thanks.” A smile tugged to the corner on his lips.  
“Help me out?” You turned around, offering your bare back.  
“Of course.” You felt his hands along your shoulders. They lingered despite their task being farther down to the bottom of your dress. “You’re tense.”  
“Just nervous.”  
His voice came muffled as he had begun pressing kisses to the base of your neck, his beard tickling you “Why’s that?”  
“Just a,” You couldn’t help but let a soft sigh escape “it’s a nice reunion but I’m still their leader, I still have to put up a facade.”  
He nodded and a quick look to the clock read: “We have thirty minutes left before they arrive. Maybe you don’t have to be General Commander quite yet.” A nibble at your neck and the feel of his rough hands slipping under the dress told you what he planned on doing with those thirty minutes.


	3. We Belong Together, Not to Each Other

You suppose you should’ve seen it coming, Rory was a rowdy one and he was definitely the type to spike the eggnog. You just didn’t expect everyone to keep drinking it after finding out about the scout’s actions. Currently, your most of your team of 15 was passing around a thickly rolled blunt and trading scar stories. A pretty typical assassin holiday occurance. Tiredly leaning against the doorway and watching them, you couldn’t help but laugh. John’s dog, affectionately monikered differently by every one of the Rogue Communicados, trotted into the circle. Burley, tough hitmen melted into squeals of “Aaawws” and “Ohhh! Puppyyyy!”  
Your mood turned sour when Tom, your second in command, siddled up to your side. Things had been pretty sour between you and him for a while. You two had dated years ago when you were still on good terms with the Continental and the Underground. When you met your now dead husband, you had broken it off to be with him, but kept faith in his good advice- so much so that you made him your second in command. That had pissed off your husband. He had just been too kind to say anything about it. Now that Charlie was dead, Tom consistently gave you shit about John. Part of you speculated it could be because he was jealous of how quickly you let John into your life the way he had always wanted to. The other part of you knew for a fact that John threatened Tom’s position as the second in command. Could Tom have killed three men with a pencil? Could Tom track down and persistantly eliminate threats to your well being like John did every day? You weren’t sure of that. All you knew is that since John came to your side, your right hand man had been getting a bit too bold.  
“Tom. Merry Christmas.”  
“Y/N.” You felt Tom lean against you, his arm resting on the doorframe above your head. “Lovely get together you’ve arranged this year.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Did you get your lap dog to put up the tree?”  
“Not sure who you think you’re talking about.” You sipped your spiced apple cider. The warmth comforted you from exploding on him.  
“Wick.”  
“What’s your fixation on him about?” You knew, but figured if he was confronted by it you would back off.  
“I don’t trust him-”  
“He’s perfectly capable-”  
“-with your safety.”  
“Are you kidding me?” You almost laughed  
“No.” His face was deadpan  
“Tom, he is the most qualified-”  
“He doesn’t know you. How could he protect you?”  
“He knows me plenty.”

From the other side of the room John sat at the dinner table. Empty, used dishes newly cleaned from its surface. His nostrils flared at the sight of you and Tom. The man was leaning into your space. The mistletoe hung underneath the both of you. His body went rigid, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice.  
Tom leaned over, his voice laden with a grunt and cognac, “Does he know how to make you moan? Would he even bother calling you his outside of closed bedroom doors?”  
You shoved him away “He does plenty more than you ever could.”  
The second you made a move to distance yourself from Tom, John leaped into action “I think you need to go take a walk.” John was very suddenly between you and your ex-lover. His tattooed hand locked on to Tom’s shoulder.   
“I don’t need you telling me where I need to be, Wick.”  
“I think you do.”  
“Look, you’re new here, but let me tell you how it goes: She’s mine.”  
A fist collided onto Tom’s jaw and he staggered back in shock. John was looking at you with a heap of surprise and a tinge of pride “What? I don’t lead an army to belong to a foot soldier.”  
“Isn’t he…?” John rose a brow, confused. Wasn’t Tom your second in command?  
“Clearly I can’t trust his sense of judgement anymore.”  
John nodded “Are you okay?”  
“I’m fine.” Your lips upturned into a smile. “Mistletoe?” You pointed up. Of course you always knew it was there.  
“What’s that?” He grinned, his fingers weaving through your hair at the base of your neck.  
Your lips met with a gentle touch, slowly melding together. Your eyes and his chocolate brown closing just to feel each other’s touch more intensely.


End file.
